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SELECTIONS FROM CATULLUS 



SELECTIONS FROM 

CATULLUS 

Translated into English verse with an 
Introduction on the theory of Translation 



BY MARY STEWART 



&•"** 35 *> *V' ' 




BOSTON: RICHARD G. BADGER 

THE COPP CLARK CO., LIMITED, TORONTO 



Copyright, 1915, by Mary Stewart 



All Rights Reserved 

1± x 



?tp^ 



The Gorham Press, Boston, U. S. A. 




MAR 26 1915 

CLA397291 
iiOJ 



2 



To my Sister 
L. S. B. 



Oh, Sister of mine, so beloved. 
Oh, dear heart of my heart, can it be 
You are dead, you are gone, 
And the world still goes on 
In darkness unending for me? 

They buried the gold of the sunshine 
With the gold of your beautiful hair, 
And the blue of the skies 
With the blue of your eyes, 
Ah, nothing is left that was fair! 

And you — is it well with you, Sister, 

You who so loved the breeze and the light, 

And the laughter and love 

And the glad life above, 

Down there all alone in the night? 

Ah, God, is there never an answer? 
Cant she hear, though in anguish I cry? 
Little soul, fair and white, 
Lost and lone in the night — 
Dear God, can such loveliness die? 

Then glad like a flower in the spring time, 

With the gold of the sun in her hair, 

And the blue of the skies 

In her wonderful eyes, 

Is she waiting for me somewhere? 



CONTENTS 

Page 

An Experiment in Translation 9 

Selections from Catullus 

I 29 

// 30 

/// 31 

V 32 

VII 33 

VIII 34 

IX 35 

XIII 36 

XIV 37 

XXVI 38 

XXVII 39 

XXX 40 

XXXI 41 

XXXIV 42 

XXXV 44 

XXXVIII 46 

XLIII 47 

XLVI 48 

XLVIII 49 

L 50 

LI 51 






CONTENTS 

Page 

LII 53 

LXV .... 54 

LXVIII A 55 

LXX 58 

LXXII 59 

LXXIII 60 

LXXVI 61 

LXX XVII and LXXV 63 

LXXXVI 64 

XCII 65 

XCVI 66 

XCIX 67 

CI 68 

CII 69 

CVII 70 

CIX 71 



CATULLUS 



CATULLUS 

An Experiment in Translation 

IN offering new translations of the classics the 
translator anticipates the critics Why-did- 
you-do-it? by hastening to explain himself. 
Hence the prologue. In fact, no one can 
play much with translating without pretty seri- 
ously asking himself why he does it, and thereupon 
finding himself hopelessly tangled in a mesh of 
questions about the place of translations and the art 
of translating. 

There can no longer be any question about the 
place of translations in modern literature. All an- 
cient literature and all modern, in any tongue save 
English, are accessible to the great mass of people 
only in translation. We may talk as we please 
about the beauty of the original and the impossibility 
of adequate translation, but the fact remains that for 
most of us it is translation or nothing. Nor is this 
altogether regrettable. Even if it were possible for 
all of us to learn Latin and Greek well enough to 
read the great epics, it would scarcely be worth 
while for all of us to do it. Though the scholar 
has his place, and a very necessary one, no language 

9 



io CATULLUS 

can ever mean to us what our own language does, 
not even a modern, living tongue; and, if this is 
true of a living tongue, what is to be said of a dead 
one? Even the scholar who knows his Greek so 
well that he reads Homer instead of translating 
him, and has an ear so atuned to the sonorous 
phrase that he enjoys its music, must still read the 
stirring epic as an English man, not as a Greek ; as a 
modern, not as an ancient. And however rich his 
knowledge of etymology, it cannot fuse with life 
the dead word of a dead people. Language is a 
living, growing thing, quivering, glowing, moving, 
connected by a thousand-thousand invisible capil- 
laries with the life of today. For the English per- 
son the English language has a subtlety of meaning 
and a richness of connotation that no other tongue 
can possibly have. It is bound up with his exper- 
ience, not only racial but personal. The power of 
a word is measured by myriad influences, drawn 
from every experience with which it may be as- 
sociated in the mind of the individual. And the 
beauty of literature is so dependent on this unex- 
pressed meaning of word and phrase we dare to say 
no original in a dead tongue could give to an English 
ear the aesthetic pleasure of a good translation. 

A good translation — "Aye there's the rub." 
Mathew Arnold in his scholarly essay, "On Trans- 
lating Homer," has set up a standard of translation 



CATULLUS ii 

which, according to Mr. Calvin Winter (In The 
Bookman for March and April, 1911), has been 
guilty of fastening a lot of bad translations. Mr. 
Arnold says that the first requisite of a good transla- 
tion is faithfulness to the original. With this we 
heartily agree. It is when he defines his criterion 
for faithfulness that we must differ from him. 
There has been current for a long time the idea that 
a good translation is one which would affect the 
English reader as the Greek or Latin original af- 
fected a Greek or a Roman. As Mr. Arnold points 
out, this is an impossible standard, because nobody 
knows just how the original affected the ancients. 
However, we feel that the test Mr. Arnold him- 
self imposes is scarcely less possible. To his mind 
the taste of the scholar is the test — the good trans- 
lation the one that affects this Greek or Latin scholar 
as the original does. The man who knows his 
Greek is the judge. Mr. Winter points out the 
fallacy of this criterion as follows: "It is difficult to 
imagine any method for getting away more com- 
pletely from the original spirit of the Iliad than to 
so translate as to have it give to the average modern 
reader the same impression that it makes upon the 
typical middle-aged professor of dead languages." 
These standards, he farther adds, "are precisely 
those which tend to develop a school of glorified 
cribs. . . . The translations that live, the transla- 



12 CATULLUS 

tions that we like to think of as a part of English 
literature, are of a different sort. They are from 
the pen of writers who have made their names 
glorious for something besides the echoing of other 
men's thoughts, and who have insisted, even in their 
translations, on remaining original. . . . Transla- 
tions have a vitality and a vogue in direct ratio to 
the writer's spirit of independence." This judg- 
ment of Mr. Winter is substantiated by some of the 
best translations in English. They have been made 
by men who were literary artists as well as scholars. 
Let us discuss for a moment what we mean by a 
good translation. Obviously the first aim of the 
translator is to make a faithful translation. On this 
point there is practically a general agreement. A 
faithful translation is one that is true to the idea 
and spirit of the original rather than to the word 
and letter. The method of the translator will vary 
according to the subject matter and the purpose for 
which the translation is intended. There are two 
kinds of literature: (a) the literature of informa- 
tion and (b) the literature of beauty. Plainly, in 
the translation of the first class the ideal is one of 
accuracy and clearness. This, of course, is com- 
paratively easy, presupposing, on the part of the 
translator, merely a knowledge of the foreign lan- 
guage (and, we may add incidentally, of his own), 
and a thorough understanding of the subject matter 



CATULLUS 13 

in hand. The translation of the second class — pure 
literature — involves an additional quality which, for 
want of a better term, we may call literary sensi- 
bility. The translator must make not merely a 
transcript of the idea but a species of belles lettres, 
a sort of new creative thing in itself. The function 
of pure literature is to please and interest no less 
by its form than by its content. Hence a good trans- 
lation of a masterpiece must be in itself a kind of 
masterpiece. "As it takes a thief to catch a thief, 
so it takes a poet to catch a poet." 

We approach any translation from three points 
of view — first, the purely scholarly view point whose 
ideal is accuracy and thoroughness. This seeks a 
pretty literal translation, one that will keep the 
facts as straight as possible, and it is the primary 
essential of all good translation. Second, the schol- 
arly-literary view point, which aims not only at an 
accurate transcript of ideas but at an appreciation 
of them in relation to their own setting. This 
means keeping the "flavor" of the original, trans- 
lating one-self, so to speak, into the past rather 
than the original into the present. This too, is an 
essential quality of a good translation. And third, 
the purely literary view point, w T hich would make 
of the original a "new original, " a bit of real litera- 
ture which, while true to its source, is equally true 
to its end; that is, faithful to the original and sig- 



14 CATULLUS 

nificant to the reader. This last viewpoint involves 
and implies the other two. The needs of scholar- 
ship may often go no farther than accurate trans- 
lation and appreciative interpretation, but without 
the literary "touch," they will fall short of true 
translation. For herein lies the life-giving property 
that must animate the solid framework of scholarly 
information, and color and illuminate the grace and 
form of scholarly appreciation. This is the trans- 
lator's contribution to literature. The scholar's 
work merely goes to pile the shelves of fact, to 
heap up the raw material out of which real litera- 
ture is made. 

What are the ear marks of a good translation? 
(i) It must be interesting to the generation for 
w T hich it is written, must speak straight from the 
heart, direct and spontaneous, in the idiomatic Eng- 
lish of the day, bearing no halting syntactical hy- 
brids; (2) it must be true to the original in fact 
and in spirit, carrying the same dignity, nobility, 
grace, or whimsicality that the original bore. And 
for this end a literal translation is often the last 
thing wanted, either of word or of form. For ex- 
ample — well-bred Romans might have listened with 
equanimity to certain words that shock a well-bred 
American. To translate literally the word that was 
in the original would be to translate the shock 
which was not in the original; and this would be 



CATULLUS 15 

faithless. Again certain figures, allusions, and the 
like, full of significance to the people for whom 
they were written may fall quite empty on a modern 
ear. It is for the translator, then, to find for these 
adequate substitutes or paraphrases as far as pos 
sible. For example, Catullus LI I reads literally — 
"What reason is there, Catullus, why you should 
delay dying; vile Nonius is in the curule chair, 
Vatinius swears by the consulate, why then, Catul- 
lus, do you delay dying ?" In translation, a mean- 
ingless and offensive lot of words truly, but in the 
original, pointed, trenchent, clever. Catullus used 
the specific names Nonius and Vatinius because to 
the ears of his generation concrete examples of de- 
bauchery and bribery illustrated in the names of 
prominent citizens were far more vigorous than ab- 
stract terms. But these names mean nothing to us. 
The abstract qualities say far more. So we have 
translated the lines as follows — true to the spirit, we 
maintain, and certainly clearer to the reader. 

Why wait for death, Catullus, why not be 

done with life? 

Corruption in the Curule chair, and in 

The Senate strife. 

Venality is honored, and bribery is rife, 

Why wait for death, Catullus, why not be 

done with life? 



16 CATULLUS 

On the other hand, to have substituted modern 
names for Nonius and Vatinius would have been 
going too far, would have destroyed the flavor, and 
produced a paraphrase not a translation. 

The translator's task is indeed a difficult one, 
one calling for versatile abilities. He must find the 
phrase that will contain the spirit as well as tran- 
scribe the fact. He must be en rapport not only 
with the language itself but with the milieu of that 
language, must be a part of its vitality, so to speak, 
and understand and know its contemporaneous sig- 
nificance. One generation does not fully under- 
stand the literature of another of the same tongue 
without more or less copious annotations, which are 
in themselves a kind of translation. We can't read 
Chaucer without a glossary, nor Shakespere without 
notes. How then shall one nation comprehend an- 
other without annotations, or one age grasp an- 
other without such illumination. A good translation 
is a kind of condensed and concatenated annotation. 
After all, we keep on translating whether we know 
it or not, all the time. There isn't much new knowl- 
edge; there's just a lot of fresh thinking about old 
subjects. And each generation keeps on translating 
the thoughts of the last into its own vernacular. 
Hence arises the need of new translations of old 
classics. Virgil translated for the seventeenth cen- 
tury might not be just Virgil to the twentieth, and 



CATULLUS 17 

we see Homer with glasses colored by a somewhat 
different experience from that of Pope. It is not 
strange, therefore, if we should want to make our 
own translations. 

Catullus has something different for us from what 
he has had for any other people at any other time, 
and so we want to interpret him in our own way. 
That people keep on translating Catullus is rea- 
son enough why they should. He has something 
for them or they wouldn't take the trouble. That 
a writer does live is reason enough for his immor- 
tality. It is to be expected that he have a sort of 
vogue, a rise and wane of popularity. Ages are dif- 
ferent, and one age's vogue is another's aversion. 

Next to Horace, Catullus seems to us the most 
modern of the ancients — that is, if there is any most. 
They are all contemporaries when we get acquainted 
with them. It is amazing to find out how 
modern all these writers are, which is just 
another way of saying how ancient human nature 
is. "As it was in the beginning, is today official 
sinning," chants Mr. Kipling, "and shall be for- 
evermore." It is this continuity of human nature 
that gives us a friendly feeling for the classics. All 
the big feelings are the same, and the little ones 
aren't so surprisingly different; rather they are sur- 
prisingly alike. Common follies strike quicker sym- 
pathies than common virtues; congenial foibles and 



1 8 CATULLUS 

superficial graces offer a readier intimacy than fun- 
damental principles. We can weep with anybody. 
Grief is universally the same; but we laugh only 
with those who understand. It is just here that 
Catullus is so "modern." He saw the grace in 
things, in manners, customs, fashions, politics and 
society. In short, for all the intimacies of daily liv- 
ing he had a quick eye and a felicitous phrase. Not 
only did he feel the passion and pathos of life, but 
he was keenly sensitive to all the nuances of light 
and graceful feeling, and it is in delicate apprecia- 
tion of the finer sentiments that Catullus excels. 
His incite is less profound than that of Horace but 
it is more subtle. Keenly alive, quiveringly sensi- 
tive to all that touches a human being in emotional 
experience, he had pre-eminently what Burns would 
have called sensibility. And he is like Burns, too, 
has more in common with him than with any other 
lyric poet, unless it be Shelley. In life he was cir- 
cumstanced more like Shelley, a gentleman in birth 
and breeding, well educated and wealthy, in spite of 
the "cobwebs" in his purse, the result rather of 
extravagance than poverty. In temperament he was 
more like Burns, wild and turbulent in passion, 
fierce in love and relentless in hate. And when he 
took to satire and invective he out-Burnsed Burns. 
At times he was so coarse, brutal, and indecent it 
is hard to believe he could ever be gentle, graceful, 



CATULLUS 19 

and noble. However, we must remember the age 
allowed excesses of speech we would not tolerate. By 
nature he was intense, yet simple and ingenuous; 
by education, refined, sensitive, and exquisite. Love 
was at once with him a mighty passion and a deli- 
cate sentiment. While he touched the superficial 
graces — and disgraces — of living in a half playful 
tone, life was to him always a tremendous emotion. 
A mo et odi, he sang, and this was the index of his 
temperament. There was nothing lukewarm about 
him. He loved his friends and hated his enemies — 
joyed with the mad rush of a mountain torrent and 
sorrowed with the weight of a deep sea dirge. Per- 
haps no one can write lyric poetry who does not live 
intensely. 

Few facts are known of the life of C. Valerius 
Catullus. He was born at Verona, or near there, 
about B. C. 84 and died at Rome thirty years later. 
The dates of his birth and death are variously given, 
but the divergence is not wide. B. C. 87-84 for the 
birth; B. C. 57-54 for the death. He was con- 
temporary with Cicero and Lucretius. 

There is reliable evidence that he was of good 
family, since his father was the friend and host of 
Caesar; that he had wealth, for he owned a yacht 
and two or three country estates, a villa at Sirmio 
and another on the edge of the Sabine hills. At an 
early age he went to Rome where he mingled with 



ao CATULLUS 

the gay and extravagant society of the period. Here 
he found many friends, notably Cornelius Nepos 
to whom he presented his volume of lyrics in the 
graceful little dedicatory poem, Cicero, Fabullus 
and Veranius, and chiefest in his own eyes and 
closest to his heart, Licinius Calvus, a young poet 
like himself, to whom he adressed some of his most 
charming verses. (XIV, LIII, XCVI). 

When he was about twenty-six years of age, he 
went to Bithynia on the staff of C. Memmius who 
was propraetor of the province. It was on taking 
leave of this province that, stirred by the wander- 
lust of youth and spring, he wrote the exquisite little 
lyric numbered XL VI. And the greeting to "fair 
Sirmio ,, celebrated his return home in lines no less 
beautiful. Sensitive to every shade of emotion as he 
was, it is not strange that he should have written 
feelingly of both extremes. Those who best know 
Wanderlust best know 7 Heimweh. 

It was likely too, on his journey to Bithynia, that 
he visited the tomb of his brother in the Troad, 
that brother so deeply loved and so tenderly mourn- 
ed in many of his verses and chiefly in the Apos- 
trophe at his grave (CI). In all elegiac literature 
is there nobler affection or deeper grief told so 
briefly and so simply as in these lines? 

Perhaps the most conspicuous and indubitable fact 
of the life of this poet was his love for a certain 



CATULLUS 21 

Roman lady whom he calls Lesbia and who, the 
critics think, was Clodia, the wife of Q. Metellus 
Celer and the sister of the notorious P. Clodius Pul- 
cher. Whoever the lady actually was is of rather 
little moment as far as the poetry is concerned. 
Sufficient to say she inspired Catullus with an over- 
.. mastering passion which fluctuated between heights 
of bliss and depths of woe, finally culminating in 
complete despair when he was convinced of her 
faithlessness. 

It is not because Catullus loved Lesbia that we 
are interested in her, but because this experience 
y taught him to write love lyrics of surpassing beauty. 
And here, just a word about "internal evidence," 
that scholarly temptation to unrighteousness. It 
is amazing how men otherwise honest will turn 
their imaginations loose on "internal evidence" and 
deduce therefrom the most egregious lies in the 
shape of specific facts. Internal evidence should be 
taken, in the main, for evidence internal; i. e., an 
evidence of the internal life of the writer and not as 
a witness of his outward acts and relationships. That 
a poet writes one or more love lyrics to fifty dif- 
ferent Lydias and Phyllises does not prove in the 
least that he has as many mistresses, nor even that 
all or any of such lyrics were written to particular, 
women. Nor does it necessarily imply that he was 
fickle or constant. All that it actually proves, with- 



22 CATULLUS 

out indubitable circumstantial evidence, is that he 
knew much of love in many phases, its joys, its jeal- 
ousies, its pains, its pettinesses, etc. And it is fair to 
suppose that he learned it from more or less actual 
experience. However, just what experiences, or 
when, or where, is a pretty bold assumption without 
a deal of corroborating evidence. A particular poem 
may have been prompted by the caprices of a friend, 
by a passing observation, by a hint from a book, a 
play, a thousand and one things besides a specific 
experience of jealous love or wounded vanity. And 
many poems have no doubt been inspired by the 
very lack of the passion they describe, which, denied, 
finds solace in imagination. The satisfied lover 
needs no poem of ecstacy; his beloved is his poem. 
The despairing lover needs no verse of woe; his 
broken heart is his cry. It would not do to push 
this theory to its ultimate logic, but there is some- 
thing in it. However, we merely want to emphasize 
the absurdity of attempting to fix a specific ex- 
perience to an expressed sentiment, while granting 
that one who writes profoundly of an emotion has 
known it from experience, which is exactly what 
we mean by "internal evidence," But that a par- 
ticular flesh-and-blood Phyllis jilted the poet on the 
particular morning in May on which he sings is fat- 
fetched. There is a deal too much of this kind of 
evidence in the biographies of Catullus; more than 



CATULLUS 23 

the facts allow. 

About a hundred and twenty lyrics are extant 
(many of them very short) that, with good au- 
thority, can be assigned to Catullus. They touch 
all kinds of subjects, whimsical, delicate, tender, 
passionate. One of the most graceful, for example, 
is written on the death of his sweetheart's pet bird; 
another to a friend who has sent him a book of bad 
verse. There is a tender and touching lament at 
the tomb of his dead brother; a biting lampoon on 
the bad manners of a social parasite who stole a nap- 
kin at a dinner; and dozens of love lyrics, ecstactic, 
ardent, brimming with joy, weighted with grief, or 
lightly and gracefully whimsical. These lyrics run 
the whole gamut of erotic experience. 

It is this range of feeling that gives Catullus im- 
mortality. He is not great in the sense that Virgil 
or Horace is. He lacks the lofty idealism of the 
one, the broad philosophy of the other. But if he is 
not humanly great he is greatly human. You read 
Virgil with reverence and inspiration; Horace, with 
relish and delight; Catullus with joy and tears. 
Like Burns, he touches the hearts of men, and the 
human heart does not change very much. Two 
thousand years ago this young Roman, hot blooded, 
tender hearted, sensitive souled, poured out his life 
in song. Simple they were, these songs, ingenuous 
and sincere. Today we read them with emotion, 



24 CATULLUS 

for we understand the feeling, though we cannot 
sing the songs. There is a felicity in song-making 
God-given. Most of us write with ink; Catullus 
dipped his pen in fire and dew — and sometimes 
venom. Burns knew the art, and so did Heine. 
There's a man of Catullus' stripe — Heine. Song- 
makers — those three — and they sent the singing 
word down the ages to set men's heart strings throb- 
bing in accord. 

And so we con Catullus' Latin lyrics. They have 
something for us still, a melody and a theme tran- 
scending language, or rather, belonging to all langu- 
age. That is why we try to translate them, to trans- 
fer the idea and the tone to a medium that will 
reach the modern ear, preserving the flavor of the 
original as far as possible, changing word, phrase, 
and figure to fit today's way of expressing itself 
when touched by the same world-old passion. This 
we do not claim to have succeeded in doing, but 
it is what we have tried to do. It may be thought 
over-bold to translate ad claras Asiae volemus 
urbes (XLVI) into: 

Dawn flames crimson, luring eastward, 

Asia's magic blooms unfold, 

Golden cities nod and beckon, 

Who can tell what joys they hold? 

However, in our opinion, this is just what trans- 



CATULLUS 25 

lation requires. For while the original has no such 
images, it has a tone, flavor, or whatever you may 
call it, that suggests them, and the translation must 
meet this in some way. 

Translations are often failures because they sound 
like translations. To translate the word and not 
the thought is false; to catch the thought and miss 
the spirit is no less false; and to make labored 
what was spontaneous is falsest of slL Therefore, 
the translation must have a kind of spontaniety of 
its own, an English originality, as it were. Thus 
we have used rhyme where the Latin does not be- 
cause in English the lyric quality of verse largely 
depends on rhyme. And in this faith have we taken 
such liberties of interpretation. 

Another generation will no doubt essay its own 
translation. We have written as we have read. 

The University of Montana, 
Missoula , 

January, IQ15 



SELECTIONS FROM CATULLUS 



CATULLUS 

i 

To whom shall I offer this book, young and spright- 

ly, 

Neat, polished, wide-margined, and finished po- 
litely? 
To you, my Cornelius, whose learning pedantic, 
Has dared to set forth in three volumes gigantic 
The history of ages — ye gods, what a labor! — 
And still to enjoy the small wit of a neighbor. 
A man who can be light and learned at once, sir, 
By life's subtle logic is far from a dunce, sir, 
So take my small book — if it meet with your favor, 
The passing of years cannot dull its sweet savor. 



29 



30 CATULLUS 

II 

Sweet bird, my Lady's dear delight, 
Her breast thy refuge fair; 
Ah, could'st thou know thy happiness 
To be so sheltered there! 

She gives her dainty ringer tip 
To thy sharp little bill 
In sportive play — a ruse, I trow, 
Her longing love to still. 

Ah, would that I, like her, might give 
Such solace to my grief, 
Might cool my absent heart's fierce fire 
In such a sweet relief. 



CATULLUS 31 

III 

Let Venus bow her head in grief, 
And tears drown Cupid's eyes in sorrow, 
And men of feeling everywhere 
Forget to smile — until tomorrow. 

My lady's little bird lies dead, 
The bird that was my lady's prize 
And dearer than her eyes — alas, 
Those pretty, tender, tear-dimmed eyes! 

It knew its mistress quite as well 
As she her mother; near her breast 
It fluttered ever, chirping soft 
And in her bosom found its rest. 

Now does it seek the darksome way, 
Whence none return nor message bring — 
Accursed be, ye deadly shades, 
That vanquish every lovely thing! 

Ah, cruel deed! poor little bird 
A-flutter in your gloomy skies! 
From her you've snatched her pretty pet; 
From me, the brightness of her eyes. 



32 CATULLUS 

V 

Come, let us live and love, my dear, 
A fig for all the pratings drear 
Of sour old sages, worldly wise. 
Aye, suns may set again to rise; 
But as for us, when once our sun 
His little course of light has run, 
An endless night we'll sleep away. 
Then kiss me, sweet, while kiss we may, 
A thousand kisses, hundreds then, 
And straightway well begin again — 
Another thousand, hundreds more, 
And still a thousand as before, 
Till hundred thousands we shall kiss, 
And lose all count in drunken bliss, 
Lest green-eyed envy, in dull spite, 
Should steal away our deep delight. 



CATULLUS 33 

VII 

You ask me, love, how many kisses 
Shall surfeit me with burning blisses. 
As many as the grains of sand 
That burn on Afric's spicy strand 
Between Jove's shrine of mystic gloom 
And ancient Battus' sacred tomb, 
Or as the countless stars that light 
Sweet secret loves in moonless night. 
So many kisses, not one less, 
Might soothe Catullus' mad distress. 
And let no curious gossip cloy 
With evil tongue our perfect joy. 



34 CATULLUS 

VIII 

Catullus, cease to play the fool, 
Consider what is past as past, 
Bright days have shown for you, 'tis true; 
Such days, you know, can never last. 

Bright days have shown — ah, that was when 
You danced attendance to the maid, 
More truly loved by you, of course, 
Than e're was loved a heartless jade. 

And then how many happy days 
Were passed in loving by you both ; 
You, loyal, eager, ardent, keen, 
The maiden, also, nothing loth. 

But now the maid no longer cares; 
Then, what do you care? Never sigh, 
Nor follow after when she flees, 
Be obdurate and say goodby. 

But as for you, reluctant girl, 
Alone j^ou'll sit and grieve all day ; 
For who will love you, call you fair, 
When your Catullus stays away? 



CATULLUS 35 

IX 

Veranus, best of all my friends, 

Had I ten thousand others, 

You're coming home, to your own hearth, 

Your mother and dear brother?. 

You're coming home — oh, happy thought! 

I'll see you safe and hear you 

Tell happy tales of far-off lands, 

The while we're gathered near you. 

Your arms about my neck, I'll press 

On lips and eyes fond kisses — 

Oh, happy men o'er all the earth ; 

Who knows such joy as this is? 



36 CATULLUS 

XIII 

Come dine with me, Fabullus, do. 

You shall dine well, I promise you, 

If Fates are kind, and if you bring 

Along with you the needful thing — 

A dinner bountiful and fine, 

A pretty girl, new salt, old wine, 

And topping all a hearty laugh, 

Mirth, jest, and wit and friendly chaff — 

If these you bring, old friend, I swear, 

That you shall dine on royal fare. 

Catullus' purse is full — but hold! 

Of musty cobwebs — now don't scold; 

For in his turn, he'll offer you 

A pure delight both rare and new, 

An unguent, perfume — what you will — 

No name its qualities can fill, 

More fragrant, elegant, more sweet, 

Than ever you have chanced to meet. 

A balm in which the gods might lave, 

Which Venus to my mistress gave. 

You'll say, when once you've smelled the stuff, 

I haven't praised it half enough, 

And pray the gods, without repose, 

To make you nothing else but nose. 

Note. — Unguents and perfumes, together with gar- 
lands, were valued by the ancient Romans at their feasts 
quite as highly as the viands. 






CATULLUS 37 

XIV 

Did I not love you more than my own eyes, 
Sweet Calvus, for this gift I'd hate you quite, 
With all of old Vatinius' spleen and spite. 
What have I done or said, in any wise, 
That you should kill me off with this vile verse ? 
And may misfortune hit the miscreant hard 
Who sent to you the book of such a bard ; 
Unless, as I suspect, 'twas Sulla's curse — 
A pedant, he, and critic who might send 
A book like this and call it witty stuff. 
Then I don't care, it can't be bad enough ; 
It serves you right for having such a friend. 
Great gods! the wretched and accursed smutch! 
And you must send the thing to me straightway, 
That I be bored to death the live long day, 
On Saturnalia too — this is too much! 
Don't think, my witty friend, I'm done with you; 
At dawn straight to the book stalls shall I fly, 
And gather all the vile stuff I can buy, 
Suffenus, Caecii, the whole rank crew, 
And pay you back in kind, with interest too. 
Meanwhile, farewell — ye would-be bards depart 
To that dark place from which ye drew your art, 
And take your darling books along with you ! 



38 CATULLUS 

XXVI 

Due on my fair estate there falls 
Not north wind, south wind, east nor west; 
But there falls due ten thousand pounds,— 
All winds at once — oh shrivelling pest! 



CATULLUS 39 

XXVII 

Come boy, and pour for me a cup 

Of old Falernian. Fill it up 

With wine, strong, sparkling, bright, and clear; 

Our host decrees no water here. 

Let dullards drink the Nymph's pale brew, 

The sluggish thin their blood with dew. 

For such pale stuff we have no use; 

For us the purple grape's rich juice. 

Begone, ye chilling water sprite; 

Here burning Bacchus rules tonight! 



40 CATULLUS 

XXX 

Art thou, Alfenus, false, forgetful, too, 
To friend and comrade faithless, insincere? 
Can hearts grow cold to what was once held dear, 
And memory fail, that once was kind and true? 

To bind me to thy soul, with promise sweet, 
And then betray me when by ills beset — 
And dost thou dare, false-hearted, to forget 
The very gods are wroth at such deceit? 

Thou, thou, in my deep need, couldst yet deceive, 
Thou who didst bid me trust thee to the end, 
Didst pledge thy faith to be my constant friend! 
Alas, whom shall men trust, in whom believe? 

By soft persuasion didst thou win my love, 
And pledge by every vow that men can swear, 
Then tossed thy words into the empty air, 
A sport for wanton winds and clouds above. 

Hast thou forgotten faith and loyalty 
And friendship that doth love and mourn thee yet? 
The gods are mindful most when men forget — 
Take heed lest they, at last, remember thee. 



CATULLUS 41 

XXXI 

Fair Sirmio, thou art the very eye 

Of all the verdant isles that blooming He 

'Neath Neptune's sway, in limpid lake asleep, 

Or raise rough crags against the surging deep. 

How gladly do I visit thee again, 

And leave behind the drear Bithynian plain 

And Thynia, where IVe toiled the long year 

through, 
Far from the fairest spot 'neath heaven's blue. 
Oh, what is sweeter than, when toil is past, 
To come back home, the mind care-free at last, 
The foreign labors done, the rest well-earned, 
To seek the welcome couch for which we've yearned ? 
This, this, alone rewards us for dull toil. 
Hail, lovely Sirmio! dear native soil, 
Rejoice; thy lord's returned — Ye Lydian lake 
Give answer, bid your rippling waves awake 
To laughter; ye light winds waft joy along, 
And let the whole house ring with mirth and song! 



42 CATULLUS 

XXXIV 

Goddess of the crescent moon, 
Guardian of youth's radiant noon, 
Hail to thee, Diana! 
Maidens pure as lilies white, 
Youths as spotless as the light, 
Let us sing Diana! 

Daughter of Latona's love, 
Whiter than fair Venus' dove, 
Better loved by mortals ; 
Chaste child of Saturnian Jove, 
Cradled in an Olive grove 
Near the Delian portals. 

Born to be untouched and free, 
Mistress of the wild-wood tree, 
Goddess of the mountains, 
Spirit, too, of light and shade, 
Sunny slope and dusky glade, 
Sprite of laughing fountains. 

Tenderer tasks are also thine, 
Goddess of the hill and pine, 
Sweeter than all others: 
Thou, with gentle look and mild, 
Smilest on the new-born child, 
Patron of young mothers. 



CATULLUS 43 

By thy shining lunar light, 
Thou dost mark the season's flight 
For the farmer's pleasure; 
Sendest, too, the quickening rain, 
Fruitful vine, and golden grain. 
Bountiful in measure. 

Goddess of all kindliness, 

By whatever name addressed, 

Hail to thee, Diana! 

Guard and save our ancient race, 

By the favor of thy grace, 

While we sing Diana. 



44 CATULLUS 

XXXV 

Fly little note, without delay, 
Find out Caecilius and say 
To this sweet poet, blithe and gay, 
Catullus asks that he, straightway, 
His swift course to Verona take, 
Though he must leave fair Como's lake 
And, too, (a task, perchance, more hard 
To ask of this erotic bard) 
A maiden fairer than the skies 
Beneath whose smiles Lake Como lies, 
A maiden whose white arms will press 
About his neck with soft caress, 
And seek to hold him when he tries 
To go — who'll plead with lips and eyes. 
And this I greatly fear, in sooth, 
If rumor hath told me the truth. 
They say her love for him hath sprung 
From hearing his sweet verses sung; 
That since Caecilius first came, 
With his sweet songs and set aflame 
Her tender heart, her soul hath known 
No thought but him and him alone. 
Methinks, my friend, a maid so rare 
Must needs thy tender heart ensnare. 
A girl whose taste can so esteem 
Thy masterpiece hath caught, I ween, 



CATULLUS 45 

A bit of Sappho's grace and fire 
And nobly kindled thy desire. 
Nor should I wonder, rather blame, 
If thou wert cold to such a flame. 
Yet, if a poet can be wise, 
Caecilius, flee those pleading eyes, 
And hither come, post haste, to me, 
For IVe a new philosophy, 
Compact of wisdom, wit, and sense, 
'Gainst every ill a sure defense. 
A mutual friend hath thought it out 
And brought it here to talk about. 
We wait thy coming eagerly, 
To share this gift divine with thee. 
'Twill charm thy mind with surer art 
Than yonder maiden charmed thy heart. 
And should'st thou fail us — wo? betide! 
But hold! why should Catullus chide? 
I'd pardon much to such a maid, 
And much to thee by her delayed. 



46 CATULLUS 

XXXVIII 

I'm sick in body, mind, and heart, 
More wretched hourly do I grow; 
And not a line from you, my friend, 
A bit of sympathy to show. 

Not one poor, flimsy, little line — 

A simple, easy thing to do — 

A little line to say you care, 

What wonder if I'm grieved with you? 

And thus my love is slighted? Ah, 
When such a little thing would please — 
One little, kindly line of love, 
Though sadder than Simonides. 

Note. — Simonides was an elegiac poet of Ceos, a 
master of pathos. 



CATULLUS 47 

XLIH 

Pshaw, little girl, you're much too small, 
YouVe scarcely any nose at all. 
Your feet are shapeless, fingers, too, 
Your eyes a dull and faded blue, 
With lips as parched as last year's peas, 
And silly tongue, untaught to please. 
They say that Formian calls you fair, 
And that they praise you everywhere. 
A dull and senseless age — ah me, 
If they could LesbiVs beauty see! 



CATULLUS 

XLVI 

Spring again is in the breezes! 
Soft and warm and sweet they blow; 
Hushed the equinoctial fury, 
Lulled by Zephyr singing low. 

And she calls to you, Catullus, 
Hasten, bid your comrades rise, 
Phrygian fields can charm no longer, 
Nicaea wearies heart and eyes. 

Dawn flames crimson, luring Eastward, 
Asia's magic blooms unfold, 
Golden cities nod and beckon, 
Who can tell what joys they hold? 

Wealth and life and love — and something 
Still unknown and far more sweet; 
Dreams outstrip the feet in spring time, 
Youth gives wings to eager feet. 

Say farewell to all your comrades, 
Each must wander as he may, 
Spring is here, and youth must follow 
Life and love its own sweet way. 



CATULLUS 49 

XLVIII 

Sweet Lesbia, let my kisses fall 
On thy sweet eyes, nor say me nay, 
Not though I kiss ten thousand times, 
No niggard favor do I pray. 

Ten thousand times ten thousand times 
Were all too few — ah, love, be kind ! 
Let kisses fall with lavish waste, 
Like blood red leaves in autumn wind. 



50 CATULLUS 

L 

'Twas yesterday, Licinius mine, 
While idling at our nuts and wine, 
As gay young bloods think proper, 
In sportive vein we teased the Muse 
To scribble verses so profuse, 
My faith, we scarce could stop her. 

And when at last I left the place, 
So fired with your rare wit and grace — 
Or wine, you say — you dare it? — 
I tossed upon my bed all night, 
Impatient for the morning light 
And you — by Jove, I swear it. 

'Twas you I longed again to see, 

To hear the clever repartee, 

The thrust and answer ready. 

I rose, my brain half dead for rest, 

And scrawled these rhymes that might attest 

My hand, at least, was steady. 

Then speed the hour, sweet friend of mine, 
When we shall meet at nuts and wine, 
With wit and jest distracting. 
And if you scorn a love like this, 
Then, oh, beware of Nemesis, 
A lady most exacting. 



CATULLUS 5i 

LI 

Then like a god he seems to me, 
Aye, greater than the gods is he 
Whom they permit to sit near thee, 

With senses clear, 
To hear thy rippling laugh and note 
Thy sparkling eyes and shining throat, 
Thy throbbing breast — ah, joys remote 

And all too dear! 

When I behold thee, Lesbia dear, 
My voice grows dumb, a chilling fear 
Benumbs my tongue; I cannot hear, 

So sad iny plight. 
My failing limbs soft fires suffuse 
And through my flesh so subtly ooze, 
My very eyes their vision lose 

In sudden night 

An icy sweat o'erspreads my frame, 
Fierce trembling seizes me like flame, 
Ah, cruel Venus, thine the blame! 

In vain I cry 
That thou avert my certain doom. 
Breath fails ; the light is lost in gloom, 
Like grass that torrid winds consume, 

I droop and die. 



52 CATULLUS 

Note. — The last stanza usually appended to this poem 
is so obviously a misfit that it has been omitted in the 
translation. It is incredible that so finished and fault- 
less a writer as Catullus shows himself in other poems, 
should have so stupidly blundered in this. It is doubly 
incredible if we accept this as a translation of the well 
known Sapphic ode in the same strain. The first three 
stanzas of the two poems are almost identical. It is 
hardly probable, then, that Catullus would so flagrantly 
have departed from the original in the fourth. There- 
fore, we have taken the liberty to adapt for the last 
stanza the general sense of Sappho's verses. It is far 
more probable that the original fourth stanza of Catullus 
was lost than that he made such a blunder in taste 
and feeling. 



CATULLUS 53 

LII 

Why wait for death, Catullus, why not be done 

with life? 
Corruption in the Curule chair, and in the Senate 

strife. 
Venality is honored, and bribery is rife, 
Why wait for death Catullus, why not be done 

with life? 



54 CATULLUS 

LXV 

Worn out with sorrow that finds no relief, 
And crushed beneath a load of endless care, 
Hortalus, friend, I ask thee to forbear; 
I cannot woo the Muses in my grief. 

And fain I'd send thee joyous songs and bright, 
And fain remember happy things once more; 
Thou knowest, how late, a flood from Lethe's shore 
Overwhelmed my brother in its chilling night. 

My brother, best beloved, than life more dear, 
Torn from my sight, entombed in foreign land, 
Oh shall I never see thee, touch thy hand, 
And never hear thee speak, nor feel thee near? 

Yet always shall I love thee, always sing 
Songs saddened by thy death, of minor note, 
Such songs as Philomel pours from her throat, 
Bewailing Itys dead by Daulian spring. 

And so, Hortalus, unto thee I send 
These sweeter strains by sweeter singer wrought, 
Lest thou shouldst think Catullus loved thee not, 
And with a brother I should lose a friend. 

Note. — Unable, because of the grief caused by his 
brother's death, to send some promised verses to his 
friend Hortensius Ortalus, Catullus sends this epistle 
accompanied by some translations from Callimachus. 



CATULLUS 55 

LXVIII A 

O'erwhelmed by cruel misfortune, 
Oppressed by chilling fears, 
From out the depths, thou sendest me 
This letter writ in tears. 

The dark night brings no respite, 
Since thou art left forlorn 
To toss upon thy lonely couch 
Until the darker morn. 

The old familiar poets, 
That once brought thee delight, 
No longer soothe thy weary mind, 
That watches out the night. 

And thou dost ask of friendship 
What love nor verse can give — 
Hope in thy bitter loneliness, 
The why and how to live. 

Dear friend, how fain I'd aid thee, 
And send thee sweet relief ; 
Yet thou must know that I, as thou, 
Am plunged in blackest grief. 

Could one bright ray still reach me, 
'Twould be that thou didst send, 
In thy dark hour, this tender plea 
To me, thy heart's best friend. 



56 CATULLUS 

Oh, seek not with the hopeless 
To find sweet hope, nor ask 
That joy shall spring from misery — 
That were too grim a task. 

Time was when youth's glad spring time 
Led me with flowery feet 
To drink where Song's clear fountains spring, 
And taste Love's bitter-sweet. 

Now all delight has perished, 
Lost in the awful night 
That rose from Orcus' gloom and tore 
My brother from my sight. 

Oh, brother so beloved, 
All joy with thee has fled, 
And all our house, its very heart 
And soul, with thee lie dead. 

All things thy fond love fostered 
When we walked side by side — 
The verse I loved, the joys I sought — 
With thee, dear one, have died. 

Dear friend, the joy thou cravest, 
I cannot offer thee; 
Thou wilt forgive — how can I send 
What grief has reft of me? 



CATULLUS 57 



And say not, at Verona, 
I languish dull and cold, 
What solace for my weary heart 
Could all the city hold? 

My books and all my treasures, 
At Rome are left behind; 
That neither joy nor book I send, 
Pray think me not unkind. 

A book of verse I'd send thee 
To speed one leaden hour, 
As all thy bitter pain I'd cure, 
If it were in my power. 

Dost think, friend, I had waited 
Until thy plea was read? 
Sooth, long ago, to ease thy grief, 
My love unasked had sped. 



Note. — According to the most reasonable evidence 
this letter was written to Manlius, who was staying at 
or near Verona, Catullus , paternal home, whither the 
young poet himself had retired in grief at the death of 
his brother. 

Manlius has written to Catullus in deep distress, the 
cause of which is not known, but conjectured to be 
grief at the death of his young wife. He has asked 
that Catullus send him books or poems of his own 
making to beguile his grief. 



58 CATULLUS 

LXX 

My mistress says she'd wed with me 
If Jove himself had sought her; 
She says — but write what woman says 
In winds and running water. 



CATULLUS 59 

LXXII 

Ah, Lesbia, thou wert wont to say- 
Catullus' love alone held thee, 
And should Jove's self thy beauty lure, 
Before his favor mine should be. 

I loved thee then beyond the love 
Of man for maid; I held thee fair 
Not only with a lover's hope, 
But with a father's tender care. 

But now I know thee as thou art; 
And though thy loveliness still charms, 
Thy faithlessness makes thee despised, 
And keeps thee from these longing arms. 

And dost thou ask how this can be? 
Such wrongs beget such deep distress, 
That though compelled to love thee more, 
I'm also forced to like thee less. 



60 CATULLUS 

LXXIII 

Then cease to strive to win esteem, 

Or think another fair; 

The whole world's thankless, selfish, mean, 

There's none who truly care. 

Good deeds but weary, nay, far more, 

They even oft offend ; 

No enemy so bitter quite, 

As he who was a friend. 



CATULLUS 61 

LXXVI 

If man finds solace to his woe, 

When fell misfortune strikes him low, 

In consciousness of rectitude 

And loyal, honest attitude 

Toward god and man, Catullus, thou 

Might ease thy anguished heart-ache now, 

Might hope some joys for thee remain, 

Dispite thy baffled love's cruel pain. 

In kindness wast thou ever slow, 

Or didst thou ever fail to show 

Devotion to her least caprice? 

Thy love didst mightily increase, 

Till every thought that thou didst own 

Was lost in her and her alone. 

What was it thou didst do or say 

That caused her love to turn away? 

Ah, surely, all that man could do 

Thou didst — Ah well, if this be true, 

Why suffer more this sharp regret, 

The god9 have willed it so — and yet, 

Ah, love, I cannot let thee go ! 

Thou knowest I have loved thee so, 

And thou art all my life to me, 

I know no life apart from thee. 

Jove's self could not forget to sigh 

If he had ever loved as I. 



62 CATULLUS 

What can't be done, I still must do — 

Forget, if I would live life through. 

Then, if there be a god above 

Who pities unrequited love, 

Thou god, if thou canst feel or care 

For mortal anguish — hear my prayer! 

If ever I have done a deed 

That ministered to mortal need, 

Behold my utter wretchedness, 

And lift from me this black distress. 

This cursed love creeps through my frame, 

Consuming with its deadly flame 

My heart's last joy; my soul lies dead, 

And I, a shade, move in its stead. 

No more I ask what once I yearned — 

That my love love me in return, 

Nor yet a thing that could not be — 

That she be worthy now of me. 

I only ask, great gods above, 

Ye free me from this deadly love! 



CATULLUS 63 

LXXXVII and LXXV 

No woman, Lesbia, can say she's been so loved as 

thou, 
Nor can she claim so true a heart as mine has been, 

I vow. 

Yet, by thy perfidy, my love, my mind is brought so 

low 
My heart so in devotion lost, alas, I only know 

I could not like thee once again should'st thou full 

spotless be; 
Yet, dear, do what thou wilt, and I must still keep 

loving thee. 



Note. — These verses are usually edited as two frag- 
ments. However, some commentators put them togeth- 
er and they read much better so. 



64 CATULLUS 

LXXXVI 

Now, Quintia is handsome to many a vulgar eye, 
Tall, straight, she is, and fair and round — but 

handsome, I'll deny. 
No charm has she, nor piquancy, and not a grain 

of grace, 
In all her large and buxom frame, nor in her stolid 

face. 
Let men of taste behold my love, my Lesbia, and see 
What beauty is in form and face in dame of high 

degree. 
What grace of motion, poise of head, what glances, 

piercing sweet; 
From shining hair, she's perfect all, to shapely little 

feet. 
It puzzles me, I must confess, how others dare 

appear, 
Whatever beauty they may boast, when Lesbia is 

near. 
For such her perfect loveliness, e'en Venus must 

admit 
The sex can claim no single charm but she has stolen 

it. 



CATULLUS 6s 

XCII 

Fair Lesbia, when I am not by, 
Abuses me most sadly; 
Whereat I smile, by this I know 
The lady loves me madly. 

How do I know? Ah well, perchance, 
It's lover's intuition — 
Don't I berate her just as hard, 
Yet love her to perdition? 



66 CATULLUS 

XCVI 

If into the silent tomb can steal 
Some tenderness, some thought devine, 
If aught from this life the dead can feel, 
Then, Calvus, be this solace thine. 

When we mourn old friends with longing heart; 
For dear dead loves in anguish cry, 
Oh, there, do they feel the hot tears start, 
Touched by a love that cannot die ? 

If this be, Calvus, thy sweet girl wife, 
There in the tomb shail less grief know 
For her spring time lost, her broken life, 
Than joy in thy love that loved her so. 



Note. — Licinius Calvus, a poet, was one of Catullus' 
closest friends and one in whom he found the happiest 
companionship. They often wrote verses together in 
friendly rivalry. The sprightly little satire, XIV, was 
addressed to this same Calvus in return for his present 
of a badly written book that had fallen into his hands. 
The tender verses above were written by Catullus in 
sympathy and consolation for the untimely death of 
Calvus' young wife, Quintilia. 



CATULLUS 67 

XCIX 

Once while you played, my pretty miss, 
I snatched from you a honeyed kiss — 
Oh, nectar is not sweeter! 
Yet short my bliss, and swift I paid; 
The haughty, saucy little maid 
Was wroth I so should treat her. 

An hour or more on bended knee, 

I prayed that she would pardon me — 

For how could one resist her? 

With angry little finger tips 

She rubbed and scoured her coral lips, 

Lamenting that I'd kissed her. 

The while she tortured my desire 
With blood red mouth and eyes afire — 
What though the minx seemed artless? 
She knew she had me on the rack, 
What could I do? — Alas, alack, 
That girls should be so heartless! 

If stolen kisses, nectar sweet, 

Be turned to gall, in sure defeat, 

By torture such as this is; 

Such brief bliss I would fain forego, 

And swear by all the gods I know 

To never more steal kisses. 



68 CATULLUS 

CI 

Across wide lands, across a wider sea, 
To this sad service, Brother, am I bourn 
To pay thee death's last tribute and to mourn 
By thy dead dust that cannot answer me. 
This, this alone is left — ah, can it be 
Thy living self blind chance from me has torn, 
That cruel death has left me thus forlorn, 
And thou so loved, dear Brother, lost to me? 
Still, must I bring, as men have done for years, 
These last despairing rites, this solemn vow, 
Here offered with a love too deep to tell, 
And consecrated with a brother's tears. 
Accept them, Brother, all is done — and now 
Forever hail, forever fare thee well. 



CATULLUS 69 

CII 

If ever friend has trusted friend 
Whose faith is tried and true, 
Discretion proved, allegiance firm, 
Cornelius, it is you. 

My tongue is bound, as by an oath, 
A secret to defend; 
The very god of Silence I, 
When once Fve pledged a friend. 



70 CATULLUS 

CVII 

If ever answer came to ceaseless prayer, 
When hope was dead and longing well-nigh spent, 
Oh, doubly dear the gifts the gods then lent 
To heal the heart consumed with anxious care. 

So Lesbia have you been restored to me, 
Who longed, yet dared not hope such grace as this. 
You came, at your sweet will — oh wonderous bliss! 
You came, my golden love, wide-armed and free. 

Ah, fair white day with happiness leplete, 
Bright day that brought my dear love back again, 
What greater joy can come to mortal men, 
What gift life hold that could be half so sweet? 



CATULLUS 71 

CIX 

Oh Lesbia, my life, you promised me, 
This love of ours should be forever true, 
Forever true and happy — can there be 
Such perfect joy bestowed on mortal two? 

Yet grant, great gods, she promised from her soul, 
And spoke with all the ardor of her heart, 
That I may keep her mine while season's roll, 
And all life perish, e'er we two should part! 



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